Cry For Me
by Fellowshipper
Summary: "I loved you, Edge, and you used that against me. You blinded me with it. You twisted my love into something corrupt and into this razor-edged thing that made me bleed whenever I touched it."


Title: Cry For Me  
Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one (since I'm sure owning humans is illegal in most states), I'm not making any money, can't get blood from a turnip, blah blah blah... but at least *I* have enough sense not to drop a perfectly good Jericho/Edge feud after ONE match...*grumble*  
Rating: PG-13 for language and some rather unpretty stuff that I won't reveal here 'cause it'll spoil all the fun.   
  
Notes: Jeeez. I think Danielle's right. I need to seriously pull the Christian musi (all of 'em...yes, I have more than one. Don't ask.) out of their collective funk and...yeah. Maybe let my musi ravish them and get 'em back to normal. Anyone got any tips on how to cure a depressed muse besides shoving Zoloft down his throat?   
  
Plug o' the Moment: Branching out a little and going with "Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Snogging" by Louise Rennison. Usually spotted in the young adult section of Borders, but don't let that fool you -- it's incredibly funny and well worth the six or seven dollars to shell out for it.   
  
********  
  
Jesus don't want me for a sunbeam-  
Sunbeams are never made like me.  
Don't expect me to cry  
For other reasons I have to die.  
Don't ever ask your love of me  
  
Don't expect me to cry,  
Don't expect me to lie,  
Don't expect me to die for me.  
  
Jesus don't want me for a sunbeam-  
Sunbeams are never made like me.  
Don't expect me to cry  
For other reasons,  
For other reasons I have to die.  
Don't ever ask your love of me.  
  
Don't expect me to cry,  
Don't expect me to lie,  
Don't expect me to die for me.  
-- Nirvana, "Jesus Doesn't Want Me For A Sunbeam"  
  
  
  
Dear Edge,  
  
Fuck you. I hate you and I hope when you get this letter, you'll let it eat away at you like a cancer for knowing you're what drove me to do this.   
  
I hope you're doing well, though.  
  
It's ten 'til six a.m. and I'm sitting here on a bridge as I write this. Harrison Memorial Bridge, I think the sign said. I don't really remember. It won't matter anyway, because by the time you read this, nothing will really matter anymore. There's a rail road track right under the bridge, and between the noise the coal trucks are making passing underneath and the few cars of people off to work or back home from the night shift, it's impossible to form any kind of coherent thoughts. I'm rambling. Of course, that might have more to do with the fact I haven't slept in a week. A week! Can you believe that? You remember how you used to have to wake me up at least three times every morning before school just to get me out of bed and to make sure I didn't miss the bus? Amazing that I've gone this long without sleeping. I haven't even been tired. Well, no more than usual.   
  
Are you going to cry when you read this, or when you find out your little psycho baby brother offed himself? Somehow I doubt it. Crying means admitting an imperfection, and you're far too good for that. You'd never let anyone see you as anything less than perfect, take you off the pedestool you've put yourself on. So no, no crying for you, not even if they dropped my corpse at your feet.   
  
No crying for me.  
  
Dammit, though, just once I wish you'd cry for me. Say you're sorry for making me feel so fucking useless. Like I'm nothing. Like I don't matter. Like I'm invisible. You're my older brother. You're supposed to understand that I like to rebel every once in a while and that I need my space, no matter how close we are or may have been at one time. But no, you couldn't see past your own perfect self long enough to realize that just maybe, it wasn't about you. It wasn't about *you* winning the King of the Ring. It wasn't about *you* being the more popular one. It was about *me* realizing that *you* were just a selfish bastard and that I wanted to be more than just the added burden attached to your name.   
  
Do you have any idea how hard it is to write when the wind's blowing like this? It's a pain in the ass, I'll tell you that much, and yet again I find myself going through hell just for you. I don't even know why I do it anymore. I really don't. It won't be that much longer. Just a little dark humor for you there. You've never appreciated me, the person, but you always came running to me whenever you needed someone to tell a joke and cheer you up. I mean, sure, at the time I was more than happy to oblige. The sorry truth of it all is that you never really see the bad sides of people you idolize until you look back in retrospect and see that the adolation you thought you were receiving was all fake. That they used you. I was nothing but your whore. I all but worshipped the ground you walked on like you were Jesus fucking Christ himself and all you did was take advantage of me. Never once did you *ever* say, 'Hey, Christian, let's go rent a movie' just because we were brothers and that's something normal brothers do when they get bored. It was always, 'Hey, Christian, let's go rent a movie' because you'd just gotten dumped by whatever pathetic groupie you'd been screwing lately and you were relegated to hanging out with the lowly sibling. You never told me thank you for cleaning up after you because you've always been a horrible housekeeper. You never said thanks for holding your head out of the toilet when you came back to the house or hotel drunk.   
  
Do you know what it's like to love a person more than life itself and then come to hate that same person more than anyone else? It's not a pleasant feeling. It's confusing. It makes me think maybe I'm doing something wrong or I've said the wrong thing or I've done something I shouldn't have done, and maybe I should come crawling back, lick your boots, and beg your forgiveness. Then I snap out of it and remember that I've given you chances to redeem yourself to me and you've made no attempt. I don't see why I should keep bending over backwards to make you happy.   
  
The saddest part of all is that it took me twenty-six years to finally figure out that you didn't love me like a person loves his little brother. You loved me like some plantation owner loved a trusty slave, or how someone loves a dumb old dog that's only kept around because the owner likes to kick it and abuse it. I loved you, Edge, and you used that against me. You blinded me with it. You twisted my love into something corrupt and into this razor-edged thing that made me bleed whenever I touched it. You can declare yourself the martyr of the team as much as you want to, but the cold truth of it all is that you're the reason I'm like this. You made me realize that nothing I do or say will ever be good enough, not for you or anyone else, and so there's no use in even trying anymore.   
  
I've been thinking about this for a while. You don't just wake up one morning and decide to kill yourself, no matter how messed up you might be. It's a process. First you start feeling down, and then someone -- in my case, my own damn brother -- keeps you there and makes you feel like nothing, then you isolate yourself, and finally you just face the truth: nothing matters anymore, so why keep going through the hassles of getting up in the morning? I don't pretend to be a psychologist or anything, but considering I've spent the past week in my bed, staring at a wall and not sleeping, I've had a lot of time to think things through.   
  
I had a lot of time to think about you.   
  
I guess maybe it didn't really settle in that I had to do this until last month. Remember that argument we had? You probably don't, since we have so many and I'm insignificant enough that you can just forget these things. I do. I remember. There's been this little hole in me for longer than I can remember, and that argument just tore it open even wider. It was right after your cage match with Jericho. I was in the back with Lance and Test and you came charging back there, hair flying all over the place, eyes wild...you looked like Medusa.   
  
"What the hell was that?" You demanded, waving your arms everywhere and almost taking out Lance in the process. "This doesn't concern you! You're not involved in this!"   
  
I wasn't going to argue. I was just going to let you vent and attack me like always and let it go. You, though, you weren't happy with that. You kept going.   
  
"Goddammit, Christian, why...why don't you just get the hell out of my life, huh? Just-just go somewhere and stay the fuck away from me!"   
  
Oh, we said things like that to each other all the time, so that wasn't anything new. But we'd never said it like we meant it. I'd never seen such hatred from you before, not for anyone else and especially not for me. You wanted me gone and you made no effort to break it to me easily. You went so far as to throw a punch at me, but Test grabbed your arm before it connected. Good, since I was just standing there in shock and you probably would have broken my jaw if you hadn't been stopped.   
  
That, I guess you could say, was my breaking point. I got back up in your face. "You want me gone? Fine! I'm gone!"   
  
That was the last time I saw you.   
  
I don't say things I don't mean. It's the only thing about me that's remained constant my whole life. I don't blurt things out unintentionally. If I say something, I mean it one hundred percent. So, true to my word, I left. I wish I could have seen the look on your face when you found out I talked Lance into talking Bischoff into signing us to Raw. It's probably best that I didn't see the pure joy on your face when you found out we were going to be hundreds of miles apart a good twenty-some days out of the month.   
  
That's when I started skipping shows. I made the first one, our initial Raw, but after that, things seemed to matter so much less than they ever had. I've been hiding out ever since. Remember Kelly? My old girlfriend from high school? I met up with her again and I've been staying in her apartment ever since. She's still hot, by the way, and she still puts out. I should feel worse for using her than I do, but whatever. That's all my life is now, it seems like. I lay around in bed all day, get up now and then to use the bathroom or get a glass of water, and then it's back to bed. Funny thing is that I don't sleep. Ironic that I'd spend all my time in bed and yet I haven't slept since last Saturday, and the only reason I slept then was because I had a headache and Kelly was out of Tylenol and I'm sure you know how much I hate headaches.   
  
Anyway.   
  
At first I checked my cell phone to see if anyone had left messages. You hadn't. Lance hadn't. I thought I'd use Kelly's computer to check the email address I never checked half the time, just incase. Same story. A week later and the only thing I'd gotten from *anyone* was a note from Bischoff asking where I was and telling me that if I planned to get a paycheck I'd show up soon. Needless to say, I am no longer employed in World Wrestling Entertainment. Big whoop. Just like everything else, that went down the drain, too.   
  
The most humiliating, disheartening thing is when it finally hits you that no one really gives a damn about you. Not about *you* the person, but you the tag partner, or you the employee, or you the pesky, burdensome younger brother. You don't really have the intense, powerful urge to end it all until it occurs to you that you're just another face in the crowd, even to people you thought cared about you.   
  
Last Friday was the last time I was motivated out of bed to do anything besides going to the bathroom or the kitchen. I got up and went over to the computer, signed into my email, and hoped against hope you'd written. You hadn't. You didn't seem in the least concerned that I'd seemingly dropped off the face of the earth. You didn't give a damn that most of the world had already presumed me for dead. You might have saved me with just one little thoughtful note to ask how I was, where I was, if I was even still fucking living. You could have saved me and you didn't, and because you can't be bothered with me, I hope this haunts you for the rest of your life. I hope to God I become a ghost so I can fuck with your head for the next few decades.   
  
But I know that won't happen. You won't feel sorry. You won't even realize that it's your fault. You'll just say that I've always been messed up and that it's a shame I couldn't find anyone to talk to, even though we both know that's not true. I have plenty of people to talk to, but the problem is that no one wants to listen. You don't want to take the blame. I don't want to admit that I've wasted my life and that the only person I love doesn't love me back. I'm not ready for that yet.   
  
I can't hate you, though. Not totally. I can spew all the angry words I want and say anything to hurt you, but I absolutely could never force myself to hate you. No matter how you've mistreated me or how many nights I've spent crying like a baby because of something you've said to me, I can't bring myself to say that I hate you and mean it. Sometimes I wish I could, but I think the only reason I haven't done this sooner is because of it.  
  
It's not spur of the moment, some irrational impulse I got that drew me up here on this bridge. There are certainly easier ways of going about it. I tried to slit my wrists but I couldn't get up the courage to do it; I'd make a small cut and decide it hurt too much, slap a Band-Aid over the spot, and pretend it never happened, then do the same damn thing the next day. I thought about going out on the fire escape of Kelly's apartment and jumping off, but then I realized that the sudden stop at the end would hurt too much. You know, there's a theory that you can rig the mechanism in microwaves so that you can leave it on while the door's still open. I thought about doing that but that would require too much effort. I tried to hang myself in the shower but the shower rod broke and all I accomplished was falling into the tub and bruising my elbows. I even thought about drinking peroxide, but that was...no. Too gross, even for me.   
  
So here I am. I tied a rope to a piece of metal attached to the arc of the bridge. There's a loop on the other end, big enough for me to put my head through and with a loose knot so that I can adjust it to fit tightly around my neck. I tested it out a few minutes ago by climbing over the edge and slipping my foot into it, holding onto the railing and resting all my weight in the loop to make sure it wouldn't give. It didn't. That's good, since I was honestly starting to run out of ideas.   
  
When I finish my letter, I'm going to pull the rope up and fit the loop around my neck, and then I'm going to climb up onto the railing and jump. The sudden jerk from the rope should be enough to break my neck so that it's quick and painless, but if not, then I'll just slowly suffocate. Either way, I'll get what I came here for, and you'll get me out of your life.   
  
I'm not having second thoughts. I don't even know why I stopped long enough to write this letter, but I felt like I owed you an explanation. That's not to say that I think you'll care, but if nothing else, you can show this to Mom so she'll know what was happening.   
  
I began this letter with hate and anger, but I end it with an apology and a prayer that you'll forgive me. I should be mad at you, I should back up these bitter words with equally bitter feelings, but I can't. Maybe that makes me look weak, but I don't care. I love you. I always have. God help me, I always will -- however much longer that is. You'll never know how much you mean to me, Edge, you really won't.   
  
Take care of yourself.   
  
Christian  
  
*******  
  
Christian looked over the notebook paper, splattered with tears and blood from where he'd cut his hand on a piece of glass from a broken bottle when he sat down on the walkway. He couldn't see the cars that passed because of the low concrete wall that protected the pedestrians from the traffic, but he could hear the rumbling of the motors, the whirring as they passed. There were more and more cars coming through, a sure sign that he was going to have to do this soon before some would-be hero called the cops on him. He folded the two sheets of paper he'd used and looked up, over the wall, to see the sun rising over the hills. It was a beautiful site, he thought, but one that didn't really interest him anymore.   
  
With the familiar groaning of protesting bones and muscles, he pushed himself off the ground and to his feet, dusting his jeans off for reasons unknown to him. He slid the papers under a rock on the railing, took a deep breath, and slid the rope over his head, tugging it closely around his neck and willing himself not to chicken out too soon. He climbed up onto the railing, fingers clutching it painfully tight and turning his knuckles pale and white.   
  
From his vantage point on the railing, he could now see over the concrete barrier, and he watched as a black Explorer crawled to a stop in front of him. Funny. Edge drove one of those in his off days. A tall blond rushed from the driver's side, leaving his door open in his haste and oblivious to the fact that a passing car could very easily take it off.   
  
"Christian..."   
  
Christian shook his head, holding his hand out, palm first, so as to tell his brother not to make another move toward him. "I don't wanna talk to you."   
  
"Christian, what the hell are you doing? Are you crazy? Get down! You're gonna get hurt!"   
  
Christian sneered, moving the rock off the note and throwing it at Edge. "That's the point."   
  
Edge's eyes widened in realization, helped when a gust of wind blew Christian's hair back and revealed the coarse rope around his throat. Edge took a cautious step forward in response, mouth working silently in his effort to find something to say. "You can't do this, Chris. You can't --"   
  
"How'd you find me?" Christian interrupted, brow narrowing. Edge took the chance in another step, and in response Christian stood up on the railing, exhibiting an easy, casual grace and balance that Jeff Hardy would have envied on his best day.   
  
"I've been looking for you," Edge started quietly, bending to pick the papers up that had fallen to the ground. "I called Mom and she said you came by all upset a couple weeks ago, and that the last time she saw you you were hanging out with Kelly again, so I tracked her down."   
  
"How?"   
  
"Phone book." Edge paused, a sly grin tugging at his lips. "You don't know how many Kelly Johnson's there are in Toronto, but I think I know them all personally now."   
  
"That doesn't explain why you're here."   
  
Edge's face fell and he shoved his hands into his pockets. "I found her and she said you left early this morning and wouldn't tell her where you were going. I knew you couldn't have gotten too far on foot, so...basically, I've just been driving around for the past two hours."   
  
"It's nice of you to pretend that you care."   
  
"I *do* care, Chris," Edge defended himself stubbornly, reaching out his hands and using his considerable height advantage to hold his brother's hands in his own. "I care a lot. If you think you're solving anything this way, you're wrong. You're only going to hurt more people."   
  
"But I'll be out of your life," Christian pointed out, choking back a sob and ignoring the tears welling in his eyes. Edge made a soft clucking noise and pulled Christian forcefully down from the railing and into his arms, rocking him gently and pressing his nose into Christian's matted, unwashed hair.   
  
"I don't...Chris, you take everything so damn seriously. I don't want you out of my life. I-I was mad when I said that. There's no excuse for it and I shouldn't have said it, I know that, but you have to know that I love you. I love you so much, Chris," he murmured, beginning to cry himself when Christian's thin form, made thinner in recent weeks, began to tremble violently in his arms with the force of his tears. "God, Christian. Were you really gonna do this? So this..." He stopped short, holding the note up with a shaking hand. "This was..."   
  
"I was mad when I said that, too," Christian murmured into Edge's shoulder, gesturing vaguely to the papers. "But I meant what I said."   
  
Unable to reply past the lump in his throat, Edge pulled the rope away and let it drop lifelessly to the cold ground, then wrapped his arms around Christian again. "I love you," he repeated, cradling the back of his brother's head in his left hand. "I love you, Chris, don't ever forget that, okay?"   
  
"I...yeah." Though tempted to argue the point, Christian nodded mutely and pulled away from Edge, staring down at his scuffed shoes and watching the tears that rolled freely down his cheeks fall and land on the sidewalk. "C-Can we ... go? Before I change my mind? I'm kinda hungry, too. Can I have something to eat?"   
  
Edge offered a shaky grin, slipping an arm around Christian's shoulders and leading him to the car. "Sure, Chris. You can have whatever you want."   
  
"I'm really not sure what I want right now."   
  
Aware of the multiple meanings behind the ordinary statement, Edge nodded to himself and pulled out onto the road again. "I know. But I'll be right with you until you figure it out for yourself, alright?"   
  
"Promise?"   
  
"Yeah. I promise."   
  
Christian smiled to himself. It was a tiny smile, one not visible to anyone but himself, but a smile. He curled up against the door, taking care to lock it first, and then, for the first time in a month, he slept. 


End file.
